


Hands-On Approach

by beaubete



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015)
Genre: Drugged Sex, Just the Tip, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Size Difference, Spoilers, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 10:04:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5159669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the scene in the ski lift had gone differently?</p>
<p>Spoiler-tastic, obviously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands-On Approach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littleowls3 (3littleowls)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3littleowls/gifts).



> This is very non-con, guys. Blame littleowls3 for this one, because almost as soon as we both got out of the film we started talking about it, and I mentioned how tiny Dave Bautista made Daniel look during the fight scene on hte train and how much tinier he'd make Ben Whishaw look if they were ever in the same scene, and she, the dirty enabler, encouraged me to write this filth. So: what happens when Mr Hinx catches up to Q, or what if that conveniently-timed group of skiers hadn't shown up? Apparently, the answer is buttsex.

It’s buzzing in the background, a mosquito sound that would be humiliating if it weren’t for the sight before him: Q, lean and spread and nude across this giant of a man’s lap.  Mr Hinx holds one narrow hip in his meaty palm like a child with a doll, and there’s no way that Q is going anywhere else.  No way that Bond is going anywhere else, not with Q’s eyes wide and drugged and still somehow so frightened.  He should have known, should have protected Q, should have followed him until he’d known he was safely away, but he hadn’t, and here they are now.  A snatch and grab, right off the ski lift and in the full light of day, and Bond could kick himself for it, for involving Q at all when Q had done no more than come to beg him back to London.  Mr Hinx’s smile is unpleasant.

The spread of Q’s hips can’t be comfortable.  He’s pinioned open, joint-crackingly open, with arms tucked tight and zip tied up his front, knees on either side of Mr Hinx’s own and.  And.  Bond’s mind skips a beat, glosses the details because Q would be so embarrassed, so mortified pink if he weren’t drugged out of his skull right now.  And his cock is hard, pretty, flushed and curved and bobbing puppyish in the air between them.  Mr Hinx twists his fingers and electricity dances up Bond’s spine.  The buzzing grows louder.

But at least it isn’t cold, or it doesn’t feel that way to Bond, who has beads of sweat forming at his hairline, though whether that’s from the temperature or the vision before him or the sheer force of rage pushing through his skin, there’s no way of knowing.  Even so, Q doesn’t look cold—his nipples are knots of pink brown tight on his chest and heaving with breath.  Q makes a taut, high sound and Bond nearly echoes it.  He manages to wrestle it down, to grab it with both hands and pin it under the weight of his fury as the hand on Q’s hip pushes further, makes inroads toward that sweet looking cock and Q hunches into the air eagerly.

Their friend is the silent type.  Mr Hinx looks pleased with Q’s limp passivity, his fluid slump against him.  He’s frankly enormous in a way that Bond has only rarely seen; he dwarfs the curl of Q’s hip in his hand, and in the other—Bond grits his teeth as the buzzing climbs again and his own cock dips, wags unrepentant and bare in the air between them.  Q’s doped expression goes milk soft and attentive in a vague way; together they watch a bead of precome form at the end of Bond’s cock and work its way down the shaft in a thin dribble.  Sober, Q will hate himself for the way he whines now at the sight, as though his crush has ever been a secret, and Bond swallows hard against the despair that tastes like bitter salt in the back of his throat.

He’s never brought it up.  They’ve never talked about it, the way Q’s eyes follow him when he visits Q Branch, the prototypes he’s destroyed only to have more pressed eagerly into his hand when he returned.  They’ve never talked about it because Q’s pride has forbidden it; they’ll never talk about it now but Q will still hate him for it.  He’ll hold him responsible for every lost piece of equipment since they first met, now, and every drop of sweat between them now besides, every dripping sign of arousal as Q watches Bond with a vibrator up his arse as this mountain of a man feels him up.  Q will never forgive him—or worse, he’ll forgive Bond and blame himself.  Either option is untenable, and any other outcome unfeasible.  

The next assault draws an unwilling groan from Bond’s lips and Mr Hinx’s grin goes wide.  The toy’s dial looks so small in his hand, a true toy, and Bond watches him roll the dial between his fingers like he’s trying to tune in to a radio station; in his lap, his other hand reaches its destination and Q whimpers.  Bond’s only a little ashamed at how it makes his cock throb harder.  Mr Hinx’s hand is almost enough to obscure Q’s cock entirely—Q’s not a small man, not really, not where it counts.  Proportional, Bond’s mind supplies, and he shivers at the first stages of dissociation.  He can’t afford to separate himself from this situation, to get lost considering the size of his friend’s genitals so that he loses the ability or even desire to save him.

But Mr Hinx’s hand is enormous, clearly seven, perhaps eight inches wide, and it isn’t until his groping strokes pull back, fingers flaring to span across Q’s lower belly, that the wet pink head of Q’s cock shows up nestled in its retracted foreskin.  Q makes a desperate sound and Mr Hinx nuzzles at his ear, almost affectionate, as though he couldn’t snap him in two like a twig.  Q shakes in his arms, and Bond shakes with the force of his anger.

“I will kill you,” Bond promises fervently.  Mr Hinx smiles slow and mean.  

He leaves Q’s cock curved proud and hungry along the line of his hip, fat with blood and drooling, and Bond’s eyes lock on those enormous, fat fingers as they probe, dip down to pet the bollocks in an almost affectionate caress, nudge deeper and lower.  Q squirms, makes an unhappy sound, curls his knees as best he can to protect himself until Bond has a clear view: Mr Hinx is trying to feed his fingers dry into the clench of Q’s body, two thicker together than Bond’s cock and the skin of Q’s arse is pinking up with irritation.  He’s clenched against them, and Bond’s heart clenches, too.

“Stop.”  And then, louder, “Stop!  I said stop; you’ll split him in two.  You’ll tear him up, you brute.  Surely you understand that!”  It’s hard to keep his composure; Mr Hinx’s hand stops its pressing and Q arches, tucks himself in as far as his spread pose will allow, which isn’t very.  And even though he knows—he knows better, knows in that bone-deep way that comes from thousands of hours of training, of drills, of testing, knows just how horrible it is to ask: “What do you want?”  It’s rolling over.  It’s showing his belly.  Mr Hinx laughs.

He’s careful as he sets Q to the side.  Q looks jelly limbed from being spread so far so long, and whatever he’s been dosed with has him compliant, watching with mild interest as Mr Hinx only leans back further in his chair with a leer.  Watching as he undoes the flies of his trousers.  Watching as he feeds a cock as thick as Bond’s wrist through the placket.  “Suck,” Mr Hinx tells Bond.  Bond gulps at the weight of Q’s eyes on him.  He clambers out of his chair and sinks to his knees.

The floor is surprisingly warm beneath him, considering this Alpine base and its cold concrete walls.  The rug is plush; Oberhauser’s minions have found this lushly appointed cabin to do their dirty business.  Even the ambient air temperature is pleasant, and Bond notes it even as Mr Hinx curls his fingers in his hair with a curious gentleness.  He lets himself be guided in, lets Mr Hinx coax his lips with the fat head of his cock and paint his lower lip in salt.  Diddling the boffin must have done it for him, Bond thinks idly, and it isn’t until Q is yelping, thick curls caught between thicker fingers as Mr Hinx pulls his hair, that Bond lets his attention snap back to what he’s doing.  Mr Hinx forces a kiss out of Q, mashing his lips against his teeth with wet and sloppy lipping, and Bond opens his mouth.

It’s an animal smell, a feral taste, is cock.  There’s not much showering in international assassinations; Bond follows the odour on the back of his tongue to the wrinkles and folds of skin where cock meets body and noses his way back up with little darting kisses, but the first press of skin to the flat of his tongue is still shocking.  He lets his lips wrap around and relishes the way the steel muscles beneath his fingertips go looser, laxer.  There’s enough there to split his jaw, to spread his lips until they feel like they’ll crack; he can’t reach the root of it with any nearness, even when the toy up his arse gives a particularly vicious hum of approval and Mr Hinx manages to steal an extra two inches from his startled open throat.  His vision is blurring in black spots when Mr Hinx draws back again.

Everything is sore, everything is salt, everything is wet.  Mr Hinx is fondling Q again, fingers delicate and ginger on his cock as Q squirms against his side like a trollop.  Bond is closer to Q’s cock than he’d ever thought he’d be, and from here he can see the sweet wet of it, the delicate flush of thin skin as it slides in that huge hand.  He’s staring, and Q is staring back, and Mr Hinx is drawing his bruised throat up and off his cock with a chuckle.  All it takes is a push, really.

Q really makes the sweetest sound when Bond’s lips wrap around him; tender and stretched as his throat feels, he can sink all the way down until the dark curls of Q’s pubic hair is tickling at his nose.  He swallows and feels Q’s groan in his own chest.  And Q’s fingers tie themselves in knots on his belly, so he reaches up, untangles one hand, and guides it to his head.  Q is responsive, whimpering and squirming beneath him as he sucks until the toy inside Bond is dragged back and across his prostate and out.  Bond’s surprised moan makes Q cry out, and then.

And then the toy is replaced with a nudging, a thick and unrelenting nudging that becomes a slow, deep push that feels just as bruising as it felt in his throat.  He feels—at least it isn’t—he’d have split Q apart, Bond reminds himself firmly, and there’s damp and enough slick to get the head in, but.  He only barely manages not to bite as he sobs around Q’s cock; it’s not going in any deeper.  There’s no possible way.

Mr Hinx seems satisfied, though.  As Bond’s throat relaxes its spasm again he can sink onto Q’s cock again, speared at both ends and delicate in both.  Q’s shivering under his palms and he can feel the jostle, the bump of Mr Hinx’s knuckles against his arse as he fists himself furiously, wanking into him.  And Q’s trembling sensitive—Bond presses the broad flat of his tongue along the thin fold of his frenulum and Q shudders, twitches hot and steamed musky come painting inside the pocket between Bond’s cheek and his teeth.  It’s a flavour that will linger, he’s sure, and when Q pushes him away, oversensitive, he goes.

Mr Hinx finishes fast, too, wanking into his arse, and laughs and laughs and laughs.

 

 


End file.
